


It's A Problem Of Disbelief

by amorremanet



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Communication, Community: hc_bingo, Community: kink_bingo, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Empath, Empath Stiles, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Silence Kink, Spoilers: Master Plan, Telepathic Bond, Wolf Senses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:38:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You know, you hide it pretty well, but I think I've got you figured out, Stiles. I know what your problem is. And I know that you have one, in the first place. …Does that scare you?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's A Problem Of Disbelief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morganoconner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/gifts).



> This was written, first and foremost, for ~morganoconner, because she had a really crappy time of things last week, and her favorite kinks for Derek/Stiles are the different kinds of bonds (telepathic/mating bonds/etc.) and Derek giving Stiles the bite. This wound up being a sort of different take on the former and a non-literal take on the latter, but I hope it still cheers you up some, sweetie. ♥
> 
> Other prompts used herein are: "counseling" for ~hc_bingo and "gags/silence" for ~kink_bingo.

This is far and away the worst summer of Stiles Stilinski's young life, and it just gets worse when Derek has to go and tell him: "You know, you hide it pretty well, but I think I've got you figured out, Stiles. I know what your problem is. And I know that you have one, in the first place."

Stiles licks his lips and swallows thickly, but he doesn't look up from the first aid kit he's replenishing. Not even over the hairs that line the back of his neck standing on end. With everything that Derek's done to put Jackson and Isaac through their paces and train them up—with all the shit that Derek swears is barreling toward Beacon Hills, which is bad enough to get him, Scott, and Chris Argent all working together—every single one of them is lucky that Deaton's still letting them take some of his medical supplies back to Derek's lair. They're lucky that he's training Stiles and Lydia as medics, for humans and werewolves both, with the only exception being that Lydia never has to treat Derek's douchebag uncle.

From how Scott and Derek described Alpha packs, everyone's lucky that they aren't dead yet, and that Boyd and Erica came back to them torn up and bleeding and otherwise injured, but at least not lethally. Stiles shakes his head and fixes his gaze on the first aid kit, can't help rolling his eyes at the goddamn presumption Derek's got going on right now. Trying to talk about Stiles when it's blatantly everybody else who needs the attention. Besides, where does he get off, acting like he has any idea what kind of problems Stiles has. Stiles doesn't have any problems. At least none that he can really explain, none that he can't handle on his own, and none that aren't infinitely less significant than everything else on their collective plate.

He must go quiet for a while too long, counting out ACE bandages and bottles of antiseptic, because before he knows it, Derek's talking again, telling him, "Does that scare you? That I know you have a problem? Because you really do hide it pretty well—it's taken me a while to put it together, and except for me and Scott? I think you've got everybody fooled. And Scott trusts you to handle it on your own. _He_ thinks that's what you want."

"Well, he'd be _right_. If I had a problem worth talking about in the first place. Which I don't. So if you're not gonna be helpful and shut up, then could you please leave? Go menace some kids on a playground or terrorize Jackson or whatever the Hell you do with your free time."

"No," Derek says. "I'm staying right here, because we're talking about this. Right now. About how I _know_ you have a problem."

"Wow, _really_ , Doctor Piaget? You know that I have a _problem_?" Stiles huffs and fusses with a mini-pack of cotton swabs. "I mean, really, Derek, this is just amazing. There's some pack of super-wolves coming to town, my best friend's putting himself in even more danger than usual to stop them and save everyone, I might have to choose between college and keeping him alive—and you know that I have a _problem_? How _ever_ did you reach this brilliant conclusion? I mean, really, man, you must be some kinda genius."

"You're deflecting. Again. Listing off other problems because you think it'll keep me from probing you or getting to what I'm really talking about." There's the hint of a growl in Derek's voice, but it staggers out with a too-knowing chuckle that just screams, _yes, Stiles, I absolutely want you to punch me in the face_. "You know why you do that, don't you? It's all so you don't have to talk about your problem. And you know what it is, _right_?"

Stiles groans, smacks the table with his open palm. "You know what?" he says. "I've got a few ideas, yeah. Like, maybe my problem is that all my friends have death wishes. Maybe my problem is all the lying I have to do to my Dad, who I'm worried might have a drinking problem. Maybe my problem is that I don't know what I'll do if anything happens to Scott, which it probably _will_. Or maybe—and bear with me here, because it's kind of a long-shot? But _maybe_? My problem is the self-righteous, douchebag sour wolf who's going on about some non-existent _other problems_ I'm apparently supposed to have."

Derek snorts like he's got a _your **mom** goes to college_ -level comeback stashed up his sleeves—he's probably slouched up against the wall, with his arms folded across his chest and his—but all he says is, "No, it's not that. It isn't any of that. And you know what I think?"

"Nope," Stiles huffs. "Don't really want to know about it, either. Not that you're gonna give me a choice?"

"I think you _know_ that the problem is… You just don't want to talk about it."

"Again? I think there's nothing to talk about. Because I think my only problem? At least, the only one anybody can do anything about? Is that you won't leave me alone so I can do my _job_ —I mean, come on, don't you have some emotionally damaged teenage wolf cubs to go traumatize so they won't up and die on everyone?"

Something changes in the air—ripples through it, simmering, crawling and slithering up the back of Stiles's neck, worse than the humidity of this, the worst summer of his life. Whatever's going on cracks through the air, and Stiles gasps even before Derek smacks the back of the chair, before Derek yanks the chair around so they're facing each other. So he's got a full view of Derek—how tall he is, his broad musculature, any closer and Stiles could probably make out each specific hair in his stubble. Derek narrows his eyes, wrinkles his nose, and he can't have any idea what kind of air he's giving off right now. He can't because it's stupid. Because there's nothing going on, not really—at least, nothing that bears dragging anybody else into because it's all in Stiles's head.

There's nothing objective about it, and no way to prove it, and for all he runs around with werewolves lately, Stiles knows how obnoxiously science-fiction this idea sounds. So, QED: it must be in his goddamn head.

But that doesn't stop the air around Derek from crackling. Swimming around with the desperate heat rising off of him. (The imaginary desperate heat, Stiles has to remind himself. Imaginary desperate heat that just so happens to involve visual hallucinations, because Stiles is a whack-job.) And knowing that he's probably just crazy doesn't stop Stiles from licking at his chapped lips. Ducking his head. Averting his eyes as though it might keep Derek's heightened senses from picking up on any other unconscious cues. Like the smell of the sweat beading up on the back of Stiles's neck, for instance. None of his silent reassurances that he's just imagining things manage to make Stiles's nerves settle. Nothing calms his stomach, either.

And in a snap bit to play this off as quickly as possible, he meets Derek's gaze and throws out there, "What? So now you're gonna make me realize my problems by playing _To Catch A Predator_ instead of pretendy fun-time therapy with Doctor Derek?"

"I'm being _serious_ , Stiles. _Deadly_ serious," Derek says as though the way he's grabbing the back of Stiles's chair—as though the way the leather whines beneath his grip—doesn't do that well enough for him. As though he needs to do something else on top of glaring at Stiles so hard that he can't even consider looking somewhere else—not without feeling sick. "With what's coming, we can't afford anything that anyone might mistake for weakness. Alpha packs are too fierce for us to play around with, and anything they can use against us? They _will_."

" _Gee_ , Derek," he snaps, slouches further into the chair, even though it doesn't get him away from Derek. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. Nice to know you hold one of your trainee medics in such high esteem. Maybe you should just have Lydia do everything since I suck so much that you can't even trust me not to get everybody killed." Stiles huffs and glares up at Derek. If he's going to keep trying to look at him like he can get a glimpse of Stiles's soul like this, then Stiles has every right to stare right back, try to shove Derek back by force of will alone, if he can.

All Stiles gets is a good, long look at the brownish spill around Derek's pupils, just how different it looks from the grey-blue in the rest of Derek's irises.

And that puts a huge, hot, _sick_ lump in Stiles's throat. One that swallowing doesn't take away. One that he's only felt over Lydia before, and one that he really, _really_ could've gone his entire life without feeling ever again. He doesn't need this—all of this _vulnerability_ , the trembling in his chest and the shivers coursing up and down his back. He means to drop the issue, wrench the chair back from Derek, just spin back to his work, and let everything go, because looking him in the eye makes it so much harder not to slip up and shudder. But instead of trusting this plan, a thought sparks up, and Stiles blurts it out before he can stop himself:

"Since when am I a part of your pack, anyway? I'm not even one of you."

"You're a part of Scott's pack, werewolf or not. That might not make you a part of mine, but we're still working together. And that makes you my concern."

Derek doesn't snarl on any part of this, or sound any kind of angry, even though he really should. Seriously, he's making Stiles's stomach flip like an Olympic gymnast, getting all the way into Stiles's personal space with this inexplicable rumble coming off of him. This feeling that he's not saying something. He sighs, and it comes out like a purr, which is more than a little bit disconcerting to hear from a werewolf. To say nothing about how he drags his hands down the chair, inch by inch, and leans down, crouches down and gets right up into what little space they've got left between them, knee knocking into Stiles's knee. Barely inches from Stiles's face and sweltering—how the Hell can he be so hot—have so much heat blasting off of him—and still have his leather jacket on, and _not be sweating_ , not even a little bit.

And his words rasp up against Stiles's skin as he whispers, "You don't trust anyone. Do you, Stiles?"

Stiles blinks at Derek. His hands spasm and his fingers clench up, nails digging into his palms. He feels his mouth drop open and the color start draining from his face, and Derek's bound to hear his heart pounding, but he insists: "No! God—Jesus Christ, no, Derek, just… Of course I trust people! I trust Scott. I trust Lydia. I trust _you_ , against literally _all_ of my better judgment—seriously, where the Hell are you even getting this, 'you don't trust anybody, do you' garbage from?"

"Because like recognizes like," Derek says, more croaking than anything else. "And I gotta say, Stiles? You're looking _really_ damn familiar to me." For just a moment, he narrows his eyes and lets slip the hint of a growl, as if to say, _Don't even think about lying to me, you miserable little shit_.

Still, Stiles splutters at him, "What is that even supposed to _mean_?"

"It means that you _stink_ when you're lying—and it's ten times worse when you're lying to _me_." Derek's eyes flash, and as he raises his hand, Stiles flinches—but when the backs of his fingers press into Stiles's cheek, they're so gentle that Stiles can't help gasping again. Derek's voice is just as soft as he says, "You close yourself off, Stiles. Play everything off like some big joke, even when you reek like misery."

"Yeah, how does _misery_ smell, exactly?" Stiles's heart really needs to cut this shit out. Because it's not funny, how it won't calm the fuck down—or how the only way it even teases at that? Comes when Derek leans closer still. The air around him's warm but not stifling, and vaguely spearmint-scented. Stiles takes a deep breath, shivering more than he'd ever admit to anyone outside this room. But he tries to keep on, says, "I always like to think it smells like pie and antiseptic? Maybe a little bit of blood… because of Stephen King? …He wrote a book? And it's called _Misery_. And it's about this writer—"

"I've read it. Stop trying so hard to avoid this." There's a growl in there, but it's definitely not Derek's usual kind. It's low and soft—and because yep, he's still totally crazy, Stiles feels it curling around the back of his neck, smoky, embracing. "You don't trust people to understand what's happening to you because _you_ don't understand it," Derek says, sighs and nudges his fingers harder into Stiles's cheek. "You can't explain it, so you think it's not as important as what everyone else is going through. _And_ you don't want your friends to think you're weak. Or in trouble. Or _broken_ …"

"Jesus Christ, get out of my head…" Stiles whispers because he can't help his mouth, leaning into Derek's touch despite himself.

"You feel things. Don't you? Things you shouldn't. Things you have no way to cope with, because you have no idea where they came from."

"Derek, I'm serious, get out of my fucking head. This isn't any kind of okay with me, okay?" He's trembling again, but it's not just trembling. He's shaking. Stiles doesn't know from what—how much Derek's words make sense, or how deep they resonate, or how he definitely knows where his own feelings start and Derek's end, and his own feelings want something that he's wanted before, but that still feels so new. Something that glues his eyes on Derek's, gets him digging his fingers into the seat, sets his skin crawling.

"It's like someone's bad mood bringing down a room, but it's ten times worse, right? And it only happens to you?" Derek tuns his hand over so he can brush his thumb down Stiles's jawline. And he waits for Stiles to nod. "You're an empath. And I don't understand it," he admits. "All I know is that that's the word for what you are. And at least trust Scott. I'll try to understand it, too, if you want me to—but at least trust Scott. He _needs_ that, Stiles. And we all need to be able to trust each other. Or we're all going to be in serious danger."

"Yeah, I know, I've only heard that twenty times today. From you, and Deaton, and Allison's dad. And that's twenty times _each_ , by the way, so like… I think I've got the message already?"

Derek furrows his brow and tilts his head like Stiles just started speaking French. Briefly, it occurs to him that something must've gotten to Derek lately, made him start breaking out all this touchy-feely, Team Dad shit—maybe Isaac and his sob story, maybe what happened to Erica and Boyd, maybe a lot of different things—but everything evaporates in a twist of Stiles's stomach, a spark behind Derek's eyes, another crackle in the air. Stiles's hands leap up to Derek's jacket; he knots his fingers into the leather, drags his thumb along the ridges of Derek's zipper—then hesitates. Takes a deep breath and licks his lips. Tells himself that he could back out, let go and make this a joke, too—but he doesn't consider that option. Not really. He just yanks Derek down, the rest of the way into his personal space, lets their mouths crash together in a hard kiss.

Kissing isn't anything like Stiles built up in his head. Derek's mouth, for one thing, moves like Derek could eat Stiles's, even in human form—when he nips at Stiles, it's hard—Derek's teeth move carefully, deliberately, like he's trying to be gentle, but Stiles's heart still skips several beats, it still smacks him with surprise, the way that Derek doesn't draw blood. His God-only-knows-how-long-stubble scrapes against the inside of Stiles's lips, and for all it's like rubbing up on sandpaper, Stiles can't shake that it's warm and it feels _nice_ , and he sighs, twisting his hands up that much more in Derek's leather jacket, trying to tug Derek closer. There's not much closer that they can get, though, and Derek growls into Stiles's mouth so hard that Stiles could swear his throat vibrates. At the feeling of Derek's hands brushing up against his hips, he yanks on Derek's jacket again, but all he does is pull himself along the chair.

All that happens is Stiles toppling out of his seat and onto the floor. As he hauls Derek down with him, his head and shoulders knock back into the chair and send it rolling away, and Stiles has no idea what he's supposed to do. He shivers, from the stone floor grating against his back and from the _whatever it is_ that comes charging off of Derek—it's not cold, not exactly, but it sets Stiles's heart pounding harder than anything he's ever felt, gets his lungs twisting and writhing around his chest—and he knocks his hips up, rolling out his back, just trying to stretch out so the floor's somewhat less uncomfortable, but what he gets for that is Derek beating back against him, knocking him down again. Stiles gasps, groans from that, bucks up against Derek, only for the sake of feeling that another time, and he still doesn't know where he's getting these motions from, how he's not falling all over himself with awkwardness as he gets hard, as he feels Derek's erection grinding up against his thigh.

He's not sure where he finds any words to spare, either, but he stumbles into saying, _Jesus Christ, Derek_ —and that's about all he can manage before the unformed thoughts die off in the back of his head, before his breath dies in his throat. Derek knocks back down against him, coming heavier and harder than before, and Stiles rides the motion, bucking up against him, dragging his hips along Derek's in a long, slow motion—they both groan, as they manage to rub each other in just the right way, at just the right time. Stiles's dick strains against his jeans and grinding against Derek means finding Derek's dick, means they full-on rub up against each other, means that their clothes are the only things standing between full dick-on-dick contact.

Maybe it's some instinct, making this so much easier than he's expected. Maybe it's the _something_ he's feeling off Derek giving him some ideas. Maybe it's just that watching porn's finally doing something nice for him—but considering he's only watched the guy-on-girl and girl-on-girl stuff, Stiles kind of doubts the last one. He kinda doubts his ability to keep his eyes open, either. He keeps trying, but every time they come back from a break to breathe, they slip shut like it's too much to even think about looking at Derek. It makes his stomach quiver and churn, and he only finally manages not to shut them when Derek sits up, straddling his hips, and takes the time to rip off his jacket. Not that it makes much of a difference. Stiles drops his hands to Derek's belt, fumbling with it, because he's pretty sure that's what he's supposed to do—because the belt's between him and Derek's cock, which means it has to go—and anyway, the only other option Stiles sees? Is getting Derek out of his shirt and he can't reach high enough for that—and he barely notices Derek groping and smacking at the table.

He only notices what Derek's fumbling for when it crashes to the floor: the little container of hand lotion that Lydia left on the desk last time she came into the office. Stiles gasps, for all he tries to keep himself quiet, and Derek perks up his head right as something cold drops into the pit of Stiles's chest, twists around his lungs and slices into them. He must sense something, based on the knot in his brow, on how crowds back down and in on Stiles, squeezes his thighs around Stiles's hips, and make everything feel warm again—but Stiles doesn't hold back from shaking his head, mumbling that he can't just… it's not that he doesn't want to because he _does_ —he really, _really_ does—but he's still… he's never done well, _anything_. With _anybody_ —even with Derek's chest bearing down on his own, he could go on into a rant, and the only thing that shuts him up is Derek leaning in to steal a kiss, gently sucking on Stiles's lower lip and trying to pry the air from his lungs.

When that whole _breathing_ thing becomes an issue, Derek lets him go, and says nothing; he looks Stiles in the eye and lets his body, his _feelings_ , do the talking for him. His eyes are still and sober, his lips parted just enough for Stiles to see a hint of teeth, and everything he feels off of Derek is the same warmth from earlier—the easy, gentle, cozy heat that just tells Stiles, _it's all right, I promise; we won't do anything that you don't want_. Nodding, Stiles reaches up to Derek's belt again, knocks his hips up into Derek's as he fumbles with the buckle. Derek waits for Stiles to finish—stops moving entirely and waits for Stiles to nudge his jeans down—Stiles just means to scrape his nails down Derek's hip, but he stumbles, digs them in too deep and gasps when— _Jesus Christ, there's nothing there and oh my—that is definitely his cock because just… okay, of **course** Derek Hale doesn't bother wearing boxers_ —

Derek has an easier time with Stiles's clothes, with everything radiating off him telling Stiles to relax, everything will be all right, just let Derek tear off the shirt, jerk the jeans down with his usual tactlessness—and it doesn't get Stiles's heart to stop racing, or get him thinking like maybe he won't manage to totally fuck this up—but it's still reassuring, how they don't have to say anything. How Derek straddles Stiles's hips without crushing him and brushes his hands up Stiles's sides without a word and without judgment, like he's touching something beautiful. How he pauses, squirts a dollop of lotion into his hand and slicks up his cock, then gently brushes the backs of his fingers up Stiles's shaft, and all the while waits for a nod before he stretches back out on top of Stiles, angling his hips so their dicks rub up against each other, side by side.

Finding a rhythm's easy—probably easier than it should be—but Derek has a tell, even if it's one that only Stiles would pick up on. Right before he thrusts his hips down at Stiles—every single time, without fail—he takes a deep breath, snarls ever so slightly, and he gets just a little colder, a little more anxious, like he's thinking that he has to make this good for Stiles or he'll never forgive himself. Stiles smirks up at him, drags his nails up Derek's shoulder-blades and rolls his hips, bucking up to meet Derek, saying, _Come on, man, I'm not some fucking porcelain doll_ without opening his mouth—and Derek growls into another kiss, drags his cock along Stiles's all long, slow, and deliberate, bites at Stiles's lips like a wolf going at a carcass. Except that Stiles isn't some corpse—so he bites back and knocks his hips up into Derek's with all the force he can put behind them—

Which is what does him in, finally—his cock catches against Derek's, he has to force it to move, and even just that little bit of extra force—even just the growl that slips out of Derek's throat, and the feeling coming off him like, _you smart-ass little shit_ —Stiles gasps. He leans up, knocking his forehead into Derek's and then the back of his head into the floor—and at the feeling of Derek's hand jerking up his shaft, he clenches his eyes shut, comes with a strangled yelp.

His breaths are heavy and they don't settle down as Stiles slouches into the floor, tilts his head so he can watch Derek finish jerking himself off. And when Derek comes, groans all guttural and deep, Stiles allows himself a contented little smile. Maybe he's been wrong about a lot of things.

Number one among them: maybe this isn't the worst summer of his young life, after all.


End file.
